The other night I reunited with my own true love, and although I know it’s bad — hell, it’s flat out wrong to try to turn back time — does it help you to know that when I wandered off to the point of no return, both of my parents gazed on and my husband was at my side?
All it took was a basket of warm, flaky, buttery dinner rolls, and I was in a sensory blackout courtesy of my old bad boy flame. Seduced by the yeasty sweetness of it all, I ate most of the first basket and a generous portion of a second.
And when I finished it all, I felt sick.
I felt guilty.
And now I’m afraid there’s no going back.
Once upon a time, food was just food. Nothing spelled happiness like my mom’s spaghetti and meatball casserole, where a 350-degree oven baked the sauciness out of the Bolognese, leaving a crispy pile of melted cheese, overdone meat, and best of all, crunchy pasta. Sunday mornings were only complete when my dad came home with a brown bag full of still-warm bagels. I would kill for a greasy slice of pizza, a salty bag of Wise potato chips, a gooey hunk of homemade chocolate cake.
